Chapter Forty-Two: The Field of Corpses

Tuhu was racing through the forest, the biting wind of the floating island lashing his face with a chill that cut to the bone. Yet he felt not the slightest cold; on the contrary, his entire body burned with feverish heat, stoked by the thrill of impending vengeance.

Every time he thought of that hideous monkey, spasms of rage seized his heart, nearly driving him mad.

Delivering an invitation should have been a trivial errand, easily assigned to a clerk, but because the vice-captain was present, he was chosen to demonstrate proper respect. Yet he encountered a madman—someone who would rather go to the western frontier than enjoy the comforts of the Imperial Guards. This stubbornness provoked the general’s ire, and Tuhu was left stranded here for three years.

The Imperial Guards were the Emperor’s own troops; their pay was generous, and they were stationed in the prosperous capital of Haojing, enjoying countless privileges. Other than guard duty, their days were spent in leisure. Countless men watched for vacancies, yearning for a place. Once he left, how could he ever hope to return?

Remembering the bribes and favors he had once lavished, Tuhu’s heart twisted as though torn by knives. He lost his appetite, his nights haunted by unrest. At long last, he wrote to an old comrade and learned that the general planned another gladiatorial bout at the start of the year. Through various channels, he sent word that he had found a rare pair of wolf-beast brothers, perfect for the spectacle. The general was faintly interested and agreed to have the wolf-beasts brought in. Who could have foreseen that they would be slain by Liu Chou?

Now, not only was there no hope of returning to plead his case, but he might even inspire the general’s wrath anew and be exiled here forever.

Such a bitter enmity could not be slept away without blood.

Yet he never imagined that the monkey would have such connections. All three instructors in the camp were willing to protect him, and, on top of that, they fabricated a reason to take away Tuhu’s only solace—three months’ worth of spirit medicine. In the end, he was reassigned to the Upper Division, spending his days wallowing in marshes among water-dwellers. Outwardly, Tuhu seemed unaffected, but in secret, he ground his teeth to fragments and swallowed his own blood.

He knew well that, though he was a seventh-rank Qi Refiner, there was a world of difference between himself and the likes of Fei Fei or Tu Zhu, who had reached the eighth rank. His strength was built on elixirs and medicine, unlike those hardened by mountains of corpses and seas of blood. But even if he couldn’t take on such men, could he not deal with a mere fourth-tier little demon?

Seething with fury, Tuhu finally chose to sneak aboard the cloudship and assassinate Liu Chou.

As he ran, Liu Chou accelerated, feeling that same faint sense of danger—like being hunted by some fierce beast, impossible to shake.

His speed had reached its limit, and he was abandoning pure running, using both hands and feet like a mountain monkey. Where trees grew thick, he leapt from branch to branch without pausing, exhausting his strength but also testing his pursuer’s endurance.

Tuhu followed relentlessly. Though he surpassed Liu Chou in overall strength, long-distance running in the forest was not his forte. As the chase wore on, his steps grew heavy, kicking up debris and leaving clear footprints on trunks and earth.

Suddenly, the insects in his box began to click and chirr.

Tuhu stopped, pulling from his breast a dazzling ceramic flask filled with crystal-clear liquid. He took a slow sip. As it entered his belly, blood vessels rapidly marbled his eyes, his breath became ragged, and an indescribable sensation surged through his body.

He began to laugh—soft at first, then louder and louder, until it was wild and maniacal. He launched himself forward, his speed and movements multiplying, whipping up a trail of fallen leaves and grass that streamed behind him like a comet’s tail.

This was Red Blood, a drug reserved for the army's deathsworn. For a time, it multiplied strength and quashed all fear—even pain from axe or blade was nothing. The aftereffects, however, were severe. But Tuhu had no choice left.

The warning from his scent insects meant Liu Chou was near!

Liu Chou could already hear the heavy breathing closing in behind him. The gap between them shrank rapidly—five hundred paces, then three hundred, then a hundred. Tuhu caught sight of Liu Chou’s back. With a mad cackle, he lunged forward, closing the distance to just ten paces.

As he charged, Liu Chou seized a vine, spun his body around with uncanny agility, and, borrowing momentum, shot back, his black staff jabbing like lightning for Tuhu’s head.

Tuhu’s hands flickered; two iron-black sabers appeared, crossing to parry the staff aside. With a stomp and a kick, he killed his own momentum and braced himself.

With a dull boom, Tuhu’s foot gouged a pit in the earth, dust billowing.

Liu Chou’s staff was deflected; he spun with the force, landing behind Tuhu and raining down a flurry of blows. Tuhu, recovering, spun and countered with both sabers, quickly gaining the upper hand.

The iron-black blades were heavy and forceful, immune to collision, and with the boost from Red Blood, Tuhu’s attacks were even more ruthless, his parries and strikes vicious and cunning, surpassing Liu Chou’s own ferocity.

The two darted through the forest, blades and staff whirling in a blur of black, sparks flashing as steel met steel. In mere moments, they exchanged dozens of blows, Liu Chou retreating step by step.

Liu Chou quickly realized the difference—Tuhu was far more formidable than last time. The faint scent in the air confirmed it: Red Blood. Remembering what Mr. Fu Lu had taught him, Liu Chou found his answer. As they crossed paths again, he suddenly spun, leapt, and kicked off a tree trunk, shooting away like a meteor.

With a faint swish, Tuhu’s left-hand saber grazed Liu Chou’s back, then he stood there, watching Liu Chou vanish into the darkness.

A bead of blood formed on the blade and, along with a torn scrap of cloth, fell to the ground.

Tuhu’s reaction was swift; even as Liu Chou risked everything to flee, Tuhu managed to alter his attack and wound him. Still, the result was less decisive than he’d hoped, and Liu Chou, anticipating this, was able to escape with his movement unaffected.

What Tuhu hadn’t expected was that Liu Chou could recognize the signs of Red Blood and withdraw so decisively, avoiding his onslaught. Now the distance between them had widened. Though the effects of the drug might last long enough for him to catch up, it would not be enough to finish things in one go.

He racked his brains—how could Liu Chou have improved so much in just a few short months?

Tuhu had no choice but to abandon his pursuit for now, trailing behind and waiting for the aftereffects to pass. When he could take Red Blood again, he would strike once more.

Just as Liu Chou expected, Tuhu did not give chase. Though he knew Tuhu would soon enter a period of weakness, Liu Chou had no intention of counterattacking; he kept running.

After their brief encounter, Liu Chou understood that Tuhu was stronger. With Red Blood, his chances of victory were less than one in five. Even if he won by luck, he would likely die to the corpsekin lurking in the dense forest. His only hope was to play to his strengths and wear his pursuer down.

If he turned back now, who could say whether Tuhu, in desperation, would not take a double dose of Red Blood to forcibly boost his power? Such a move would be nearly suicidal, but when a man is cornered, who knows what he’ll do?

The best approach was a contest of endurance—if Tuhu couldn’t rest during his weakened state and was forced to keep up, he would collapse. Liu Chou could run for a day and night without issue; could Tuhu do the same?

Run… run… run…

Suddenly, Liu Chou noticed a growing brightness ahead; gaps between the trees widened. After a quarter of an hour, he burst out of the forest and found himself before a vast, glowing plain.

Beneath his feet yawned a hundred-fathom cliff, sheer as if hewn by blade and axe.

Beyond the woods stretched rolling wasteland, boundless and immense. In the far distance, mountains pierced the sky. The plain was dotted with countless glowing flowers, each illuminating a span of ground around it. Thousands upon thousands of these flowers bloomed, casting the floating island in a scene reminiscent of sunset.

First came the wilds, then hills, then wilds again, the land riven with gullies and ridges. Though desolate, the place teemed with life—some aimless, some motionless as wood or clay, some raising their heads and howling at the heavens—all simply existing.

Yet it was existence, not life, for these beings dwelled in the liminal space between living and dead, neither truly alive nor fully dead.

Corpsekin—the lowest kind—were not living things to begin with.

This was the Corpsekin Wasteland, birthplace of all low-grade corpsekin. Though none here were as strong as the one Liu Chou had slain, their numbers were legion—millions, perhaps. To cross this land, there was but one method: fight your way through, or die trying.

The wilds were broad and the hills sparse, but the hills divided the corpsekin into clusters—few corpsekin on the hills, most gathered in the plains.

But there were exceptions.

Far ahead and to the right, a tall hill rose, honeycombed with countless caves, reminiscent of the cave dwellings built in later ages, though here they were a chaotic sprawl, dotting the hillside like sesame seeds on a dumpling.

Atop the hill, outside the caves and down the steep slope at the edge of the plain, a horde of corpsekin with awakened minds had gathered. Clutching bone weapons, they formed the rudiments of a battle formation.

This was a city of higher corpsekin—crude and dilapidated, yet a beacon of hope for their kind.

When their numbers and strength were sufficient, the corpsekin would stream forth from each hill-city, merging into a river that swept across the land, laying siege to the beastkin survivors within the encircling mountains, intent on annihilating their ancient foes.

The elders passed down this memory through the ages, but for over a hundred years, no assault had been launched.

Their leaders knew well—the continent had a new master, one who dwelled among the ring of mountains. Whether corpsekin or beastkin, all were now lambs at the slaughter.

Thus, the higher corpsekin ceased their campaigns, pinning their hopes instead on the living creatures who passed through the wasteland—ambushing them, feeding on their flesh and blood, and growing ever stronger, biding their time. Until then, the ring of mountains remained unchallenged.

Even a corpse, it seemed, could possess hope and longing for its kind.

Liu Chou gazed far into the distance—so far his eyes could barely discern it. There, interspersed with the corpsekin, several human figures fought desperately forward, while corpsekin surged endlessly around them. In the melee, one figure stumbled and fell. The others did not turn back; they pressed on, leaving their companion to be swallowed by the horde. Soon nothing remained but a shallow pit, gouged and gnawed by teeth and claws.

Another hundred paces, and another fell; the grim scene repeated.

By the time the survivors reached the hills, less than two-thirds remained.

Liu Chou made a swift decision and turned away. If he had to break through, he would choose a spot where the corpsekin were fewest, rest on the hills, and force his way through in stages.

Here, at last, was the true trial—the final test.

It was a test of skill, and above all, a trial of life and death.